An Unforgettable Lady(26)

When he started to go inside, she froze.

"Er—you're coming up? Tonight?" The pitch of her voice was an octave higher than usual and the doorman discreetly dematerialized.

Smith waved to the driver and the limo pulled away.

"That was our agreement." His eyes were laconic. "Do we have a problem? Again?"

"What are you going to sleep in?" she blurted.

"My own skin usually does the job."

"Oh, of course. Yes." And she'd thought the underwear fantasy had been hard to handle. "Ummm."

"What are you waiting for?"

She couldn't very well answer that one truthfully. He didn't need to know she was trying to clear her mind of what he'd look like buck naked.

As she led him through the grand lobby of the building, her mind was lamenting that she had no time to prepare for him coming into her home. Sleeping in the bedroom next to hers.

Sharing a bathroom with her.

A giggle came out of her mouth as she remembered her guest bath was ripped apart. There wasn't even running water in it. He was going to have to use her towels, her soap, her shower.

"What's so funny?" Smith reached over and hit the button to summon the elevator. His blue eyes moved over to her lazily, as if he might not really care what was amusing her.

So she made sure to tell him.

"I'm wondering what you're going to think when you take a shower tomorrow morning and have to use my lavender-scented soap." She smothered another fit of laughter born out of tension. "Are you sure you don't need anything? A razor? A comb? Or do you roll out of bed looking like your bad-ass self?"

"Well, what do you know. The countess knows a curse word," Smith remarked as the elevator arrived.

"I'm quite well-versed in the use of slang," she said. "Just the other day, I dropped a jar on my foot and swore a blue streak."

"Was it caviar?"

"No, shoe polish."

"Now that's another surprise." He bowed slightly at the waist as he held the door. "Your Highness."

She frowned. He was mocking her again and, stupidly, it hurt her feelings.

Because he was, after all, going to be living with her. Even if they were never going to be friends, surely they could both make an effort to be respectful of each other? She was certainly willing to work on getting along with him. Even if she vacillated between wanting to yell at him and ...

She wasn't going to let herself think about kissing him again.

"Just call me Grace, would you," she muttered while stepping inside. "That royal title nonsense is grating."



* * *



In the tight confines of the elevator, Smith was itching for the doors to reopen.

Grace was standing in front of him so he had a good look at the back of her neck, which was the last thing he needed. All the way up the building, he kept picturing his hands sliding around her waist and pulling her back against his body, tilting her head around so he could kiss her long and hard.

If the damn elevator was going up any slower, it'd be heading for the basement, he thought with a curse.

Working with the countess was going to be difficult. While riding in the limo with her, he'd had to stare out the window so he didn't linger on the generous expanse of leg revealed by her dress. And when he'd sensed her looking at him, he had been damn tempted to give her exactly what those eyes of hers had been asking for.

Hell, he'd even been annoyed to learn she'd been faithful to her husband. As if that aristocrat deserved it after the way he'd looked at her father's funeral.

When the doors finally slid open, he felt a surge of release as they stepped out into a hallway.

There were two unmarked doors at either end of the short corridor as well as a third that had a glowing red exit sign over it.



He heard the ringing sound of keys as she opened the door to the left. As soon as she stepped inside, she kicked off her high heels and sighed before padding around, flipping on lights.

Smith was impressed by her home but not surprised. He figured she'd live in one hell of a place. The penthouse had twelve-foot ceilings, a spectacular view, and period details from the turn of the century. The woodwork alone, from the moldings to the hardwood floor, was worth a mint, and it didn't hurt that her antique furniture and paintings were museum-quality.

"I suppose I should give you a tour," she said without much enthusiasm.